Final Four
by SheerwaterPhoenix
Summary: "This is the Hunger Games. Everyone kills. Or is killed. I used to be more terrified of being the one who dies, but now . . . now I can see that being the murderer is much worse." Till Jackson of District Eleven never expected to make it into the final four. When she does, the Hunger Games are more real than ever.


**This is just something I had a dream about a long time ago. As a result, it's not as realistic as I'd like. I've edited it (a lot) so that it makes more sense and is slightly more ****believable. A lot of stuff has also been added on—the dream was really short.**

I press myself further into the thick hedge along the side of the cliff as I hear two of the remaining three tributes go past my hiding place. One of them is walking with confident strides and an angry expression on her face. The only surviving Career, from District One. The other hangs back behind her, treading nervously upon the grassy field, terror in her eyes. I recognize her as the girl from Nine. I wonder why the Career hasn't just killed her yet.

District One—I think her name's Daria—stops abruptly and tightens her grip on her large knife. I inhale sharply and I think that's what gives me away. Yes, she can definitely see me now; she's reaching into my hiding place. I don't care about making noise now; I've already been spotted. I frantically try to scramble backwards, to hide deep in the leaves and branches, but the cliff face is pressing hard into my back. I can't retreat any farther.

I feel Daria's strong grasp tighten cruelly around my arm as I'm yanked out of the hedge so that she can stab me more easily. She's raising the knife and I can barely choke out the words fast enough:

"No! I—I know where—where Six is!" Daria pauses but keeps her knife raised. The boy from Six is the only other one. I'd seen him disappear into the hedge a while back. He evaded the Career and Nine, so I'm their only chance of finding him. I silently beg that Daria realizes this as well. That's my only hope of staying alive . . . even if it's only for the next minute or so.

"Lead on," Daria growls. "If you're lying. . . ." She doesn't need to finish the sentence. If I'm lying, my death will be much, much slower.

"He—he's . . . this way," I stammer, my breathing coming in short, sharp, choked gasps. Daria glares at me suspiciously as I try to lead her to where I last saw District Six.

It only takes me about a minute to find where I glimpsed the boy hiding. It's marked by a distinctive twisted tree stump directly across from it. "In here," I say to Daria, pointing, my voice hollow. For a split second I'm confused why Daria doesn't just kill me now, but then I realize that she will want to punish me if I'm lying about Six.

Daria crawls under the shrub and I hear a terrible, gurgling scream that is abruptly cut off. I shudder involuntarily and feel slightly sick. The cannon sounds immediately.

Just as Daria's head emerges from the thick hedge, I remember I have a knife of my own. In a case, hidden in a pocket inside of my jacket. I could kill Daria right now, while she won't be able to raise her knife.

Before my courage can desert me, I take out my knife, dart forward, and drive it as hard as I can into Daria's back. She screams in pain and fury, lashing out with her last seconds of life at my arm. I manage to yank my arm mostly out of the way, but the knife still catches the edge of my arm. It hurts, but it's superficial.

_Boom! _The cannon is what finally drives me to collapse in a heap of trembling limbs. I'm staring at the bloody knife in my shaking hands, unable to move.

I just . . . I just killed a girl. Yes, she was ready to torture me, but . . . _I _was the one who killed _her. _No—no . . . what did I _do? _How could I . . . ? What did I _do?_

Hunger Games. This is the Hunger Games. Everyone kills. Or is killed. I used to be more terrified of being the one who dies, but now . . . now I can see that being the murderer is much worse.

The girl from District Nine is standing just feet away from me. Not making a single move. I force myself to my feet. She will definitely be the victor . . . I can't kill again. I _can't_. But that doesn't mean I have to take it sobbing in fear. One second, one thought, one motion . . . it changes absolutely everything.

The knife falls out of my trembling hands as I stand and I'm grateful for that. I can't stand holding it for a second longer.

The girl doesn't do anything. She doesn't leap for the knife, nor try to strangle me. She just stands there.

And in her fearful eyes, I can see the exact same thing I'm thinking: _I don't want to kill her._

**Well, that's where the dream cut out, and I don't know how I want to end it, so I'm just leaving it right there.**


End file.
